


In the Heat of the Moment

by phae



Series: All the Captain's Commandos [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 08:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16302095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: Bullets are flying, tensions are high, and Clint's still flirting. Must be a Tuesday.





	In the Heat of the Moment

Boxed in by Hydra goons behind a dumpster that's literally on fire while his ammo steadily dwindles down and only that fuck-nugget Barton for backup is not how Bucky envisioned his day going.

No, it should have been a relatively easy (though annoying, given the company he’s forced to keep of late) day giving Barton the nickel tour of the illustrious territory claimed in and around Brooklyn by the Captain and his Howling Commandos, showing him the ins and outs of the protection racket they had going, the areas around the city they kept a particular eye on, that sort of thing.

But instead he’s here, trying to line up a shot through the heat haze while Barton’s waving his fucking bow around and caterwauling from his nest in the trash cans across the alley. “Shot through the heart, and I’m to blame!~”

“Well, you certainly give love a bad name, alright,” Bucky grumbles as he ducks down to reload.

Barton gasps theatrically. “Jealous I’m serenading other men? Don’t worry Bucky-boo.” His voice drops to a lower pitch as he croons, “’Cause I only have eyes for you!~”

As if Barton isn’t constantly throwing out lines at anyone passing by on the daily. He exchanges leers and lewd pick up lines with Tony over coffee at the morning briefings. He winks at Stevie and always manages to stand just a hair too close whenever he’s given half a chance until Steve’s neck starts flushing red and he gets all stern-faced. He’s got an ongoing sextcapade going with some chick named Natty-Light in his phone that’s mostly a string of emoji eggplants and peaches.

Bucky is, himself, no stranger to Barton’s chronic-flirt ways, but he knows better than to read anything into the come-ons. They’re nothing more than a cocky front Barton presents to the world, and to the Commandos in particular, right now. Which is precisely why Bucky signed himself up to be Barton’s permanent shadow for the foreseeable future; every last one of ‘em’s been swindled by Barton’s particular brand of “charm,” even Stevie for all he insists he’s got a real bead on the guy and he’s trustworthy enough.

“Yeah?” Bucky snaps back with a scowl. “Well, hows ‘bout you put your eyes to some actual goddamn use and–-”

His witty rejoinder is drowned out by the spray of automatic cover fire from the end of the alley. At least, Bucky’s giving these dipshits the benefit of the doubt that it’s meant to be cover fire, otherwise it’s just a gross waste of resources given how high the arc of bullets are hitting in the brick and plaster overhead.

Gun gripped tight in his cybernetic prosthetic, Bucky leans around the edge of the dumpster and nails the trigger-happy goon with a single shot ‘cause that’s how badasses do.

Unfortunately, even badasses who do everything right and cool and aesthetically pleasing still fall victim to stray ricochets now and then.

The bullet clips him in the back of his left shoulder, right where there’s still the worst kind of sensation most days. He wheels back and around with a cut-off cry of pain, ‘cause like hell he’s letting these fuckers get to him like that. He falls back hard against the dumpster then has to fall back  _forward_ ‘cause holy fuck, but that shit’s seriously heating up now.

“Buck? You hit? ‘Cause seriously, dude, if you are, never letting you live that one down. These dudes are amateurs, every last one of ‘em.”

Groping around behind him as he grimaces in pain, he ignores Barton’s ever-present babbling and gets a hand over the wound, doing his best to keep pressure on it, nevermind that that makes it sting all the more.

Bucky’s too busy contemplating if the dumpster fire’s actually burning hot enough he could maybe cauterize this motherfucker if he leaned back long enough, to pay Barton any mind until he's abruptly rolling right all up in Bucky’s space, crouching over where Bucky’s prone on the nasty-ass ground with three arrows knocked on his bow all at once.

Looking up from between Barton’s legs-–and Bucky swears to all fuck, if this comes back to bite him in the ass with more horrible come-ons, Bucky is gonna fry the dude alive–-Bucky almost doesn’t recognize him.

Barton’s suddenly all posture, his arms angled picturesque as you please, and his usual easy grin is gone for the first time Bucky’s ever seen, replaced with a cold countenance that speaks volumes for the reputation that follows the clown around. The second he’s loosed his three arrows, he’s drawing again, his aim barely adjusting before he’s letting two more fly.

And then the alley’s silent, no gun fire, no dying moans, no bodies even hitting the floor.

Bucky’s still blinking up at Barton, trying to process what just happened and where the fuck  _this_  guy’s been the whole time, when a whole  _other_ Barton shows up to the party.

 _Dropping his bow_ , the damn thing he polishes and shines and crows about endlessly, to the ground, Barton descends down on Bucky, all too-wide eyes and lip-biting concern, patting him down, looking for the entry wound. Bucky lifts his shoulder the best he can to let him see, and then Barton’s got Bucky rolled on his side, his weight falling over Barton’s thick thighs as Barton rips away fabric to get a look at it.

Which is when Bucky gets a good look at the scene beyond the dumpster. The remaining six goons that they were slowly working to pick off are all dead, four with arrows pierced straight through their necks and pinning them in place where they stood, and the last two strung together by a single arrow.

It’s a bloody mess, and yet--it's neat and precise and, quite frankly, one of the hottest things Bucky’s ever seen.

He’s brought back down to Earth when Barton shifts him back over and brings Bucky’s arm back up and over to hold a mound of cloth to the wound–-Barton’s balled up hoodie sleeve apparently, given that he’s now short one. And then Barton’s ripping the rest of the hoodie off along with the t-shirt underneath, grasping the fabric between his hands and shredding them along the seams, for a bandage or tourniquet or maybe just ‘cause he’s fretting here over what to do, Bucky’s got no real clue.

Except, he does know when to give someone their dues, and Barton, he's just saved Bucky’s life. Reaching out slowly with his prosthetic hand so he doesn’t jar anything, Bucky reels Barton in by the back of his neck until he’s down on Bucky’s level, then plants a kiss square on his forehead and says, “Thanks. My hero.”

Bucky’s never seen Barton flush, honest to God didn’t even think him capable of it, but when he falls back and Clint shoots back up, he’s red as a tomato from his ears to his chest.

Barton’s mouth flaps open a few times uselessly, then he finally gets out a mangled, “Blood. It’s–-you’re bleedin’.” Flailing around like a flustered chicken, Barton starts trying to make sense of the tatters of his clothes, attempting to dress Bucky’s wound with shaking hands. “You-–that needs to stop,” Barton keeps on jabbering. “Stop  _bleeding_  already.”

Bucky can feel he’s starting to fade, and this is usually the part where he fights to stick with it and keep an eye out for what’s happening, but Barton’s looking out for him, and it looks to be the guy’s plenty sincere in that, and maybe the rest of it as well, so Bucky let’s the darkness claim him and leaves Barton to his motherhenning.


End file.
